Short story: cailin

By B.K. Baker

CAILIN

A short story by B.K. Baker

Published by Breezus Publications, 2024. Naarm Melbourne.

PART ONE: HOME

I tried to hold onto myself as much as I bloody well could. I gripped my knees and stared at the floor. I needed another goddamn distraction. I thought about the wolves I saw on Nat Geo the week before. I stared at the television as this huge gray wolf eyeballed her prey, focused and zen. Nothing distracted her before the pounce - that beast was not fazed by a single bloody thing.

My thoughts were suddenly split up.

“Seven hundred fucking dollars is unheard of!” he said. 

My mother stared at him, like a seething bird. This specific bird was perched on the edge of her bird bath, a soup-sized red wine.  She stood at the opposite end of the dining table as he banged on about my uniform fees. I started to wonder if my mother would be an alpha wolf, or a beta wolf. I reckon she would like to think she’s an alpha.
"I'm not sure why you're so bothered, darling. There was never an issue with your supposed hot machine,” she said, without any real bother.  “Fronting your father at the pokies isn’t the only way to get him on side. Also, your figures are off again honey. Cailins’ blazer cost eight hundred fucking dollars.”

My uniform fees had never caused a shitstorm this shitty before. Over time I reckoned it wasn’t what they were arguing about that mattered, fighting with each other was their hobby. I glanced around the room and saw a small framed photo of my Gran on the mantle. She had those beautiful, serious green eyes - I wish I had gotten them instead of my boring brown circles. My eyes were crowded by freckled skin and curly red hair, it was impossible to tame this frizz without a styling kit, and honestly who could be arsed. I thought about the time my Gran tried to convince me that dingoes were more interesting than wolves, and that we could go and see some if I liked. I politely explained to her that dingoes are bloody shit. They didn’t work together in the way that wolves do. Wolves were bonded, and super protective of one another. Though I am not a budding Steve bloody Irwin, I have tonnes of hobbies and interests, a straight-up all-rounder if you will.
For example, my Gran had enrolled me in Irish dancing lessons when I was little (against my will of course). Nonetheless, I’m shit-hot at dancing nowadays, and that’s a fact. I do reckon it’s a bit of a speciality to have this traditional Irish backing while I am learning urban dance moves. Completely self-taught and all that. I often wondered if someone like Lil’ Kim or Juvenile would ever use a hip-hop-irish dancer on tour. My mind often buggered around with random thoughts like this when I felt off. This woman, Ana, once told me it’s got to do with my coping mechanical. She’s the wellbeing lady at school, not terrible for an adult. It feels like she sort of talks to you because she wants to, not because she should.

Bang! 

A hand slammed so hard on our dining table that I thought it might crack the floor beneath.

“Be careful now, Bridget… Very fucking careful, love," my Father said. 

The silence that followed was not a welcome relief. Outside, I could hear Hawthorn’s traffic, and the dinging of a tram in the distance. I had wished it would pull up right outside our house, as the warm light from inside beckoned me out of the house. My mother turned her back to him, swaying her way toward the wine cabinet again. I knew she was drunk because the countertop of our kitchen bench sported a few red rings. One time I spilt my Kirk’s on that damn bench. The next thing I knew, I was stuck in the corner of our dining room with spit all over my cheek and a finger jabbed into my chest. 

“Do you know the value of fucking marble, Cailin!” my mother sprayed. 

I remember feeling confident that wasn’t a question, so thought it best not to respond.

I looked back at the wounded wombat in the room. He was also drunk. He used one of our dining chairs as a crutch, or a barricade. I couldn't be sure. My mother grabbed her newly poured wine and walked over to him like an elegant, pissed-off deer. Usually by now, one of them would slam a door, and they'd both bolt to opposite corners of the house. Tonight, however, my father’s mouth looked like a possum's arse, all puckered up and tense. I realised in that moment, I didn’t know the colour of his eyes. Grey? My gut twisted again as my mother stared at her husband. She was resting her right index finger just beneath the top button on his shirt.
“Your father..." She said softly, “His biggest issue isn’t that he’s an addict. Nor is it that he successfully raised two putrid misogynists..." She tilted her head back, trying her very best to look into his eyes. “His biggest issue, darling?” My father was using the dining chair as a stress ball now. 

“Your old man is deep in the poof closet, with no arse to turn to,” she laughed.

I lowered my head again, focusing on the toes of my new Nike sneakers. I needed to shit. Before I could think about how to sneak to the toilet, a crack sounded in the far wall.

The dining chair had flown.

A painting on the other side of the room bounced on to the floor in response.  I don’t remember what happened next, a lot of noise, some grunting. After a while, I managed to look up in the direction of my father. I caught her feet, kicking and scuffing. I saw him struggling as he pried the hallway door open with one hand, the other holding onto my mother’s hair. He was dragging her along the ground with no effort, almost as though she were a bag of laundry. He kicked her in the lower back. She fell past the door frame and bellyflopped into the hall. He turned around and his eyes landed on mine.
I couldn’t feel anything. I had no breath. His eyes widened as he saw me; I wanted to look away. I’d had enough of being in this utter hell. He turned his head back toward the hall and slammed the door behind him. Their racket moved to the other end of the house.

Crazy, I thought to myself, his eyes are just like mine.

PART TWO: THE PACK

Two months went by fairly quickly. I was pretty okay at Gran's place, even with the odd social worker dropping by and the cops asking a few questions. I was in the kitchen scuffing her linoleum floor, while Gran sat in the lounge on a rolled-out rubber mat. The police had told us that the nosy old bitch next door happened to be in our front yard during my parents' face-off. Something about her dog getting out, though I thought that was bullshit. Either way, she caught everything through the window of our good room and rang the coppers. So there I was, standing in this tiny kitchen, trying to perfect a classic move – point-hop back, fused with the Bart Simpson side step. Blending hip-hop and Irish dancing was super hard, especially since no one around here got it. This is a city known for rollie-cigs, dirty rock and Victoria Bitter. Hip-hop started thousands of kilometres away in America, sometimes I felt alone with it.
“Cailin, stop heaving those feet!” Gran's bum poked in the air now as she focused on a new yoghurt pose. I don’t understand why grown-ups do such strange exercises named after dairy.
“I didn’t mean to - I lost my damn balance!” I scoffed. She rolled and stretched, her chin pointing at the roof. “Not the dancing girl, school. You will be on time today, no ifs or buts. It’s costing me an arm and a leg sending you in a cab each day to that toffee institution,” Gran kept her eyes on the ceiling during her lecture. I grabbed my Sony Discman and pulled an N.W.A CD from the front of my backpack.

“Money for lunch on the hall table!” Gran sang out as I ran for the front door.
I knew she found this whole thing a bit weird, my nice school clothes and these shiny Chelsea shoes. Gran slept on the sofa bed each night while I enjoyed her queen. I never understood why my mother had so much money, and my Gran so little. Mind you, the old bird didn’t seem to resent it or nothing, sometimes it even seemed like she was angry with money.
At the front gate, a Silvertop started tooting away. Going from the north of the city to the east was a drain. Ol’ mate cabby kept trying to talk to me, though I wasn’t really interested. I slapped the Discman's play button, and N.W.A blasted to life: "I'm expressing with my full capabilities, and now I'm living in correctional facilities,” pure poetry.
“Whatcha listening to?” The cabby turned his head toward the back seat, I’d stupidly left one headphone off my ear. He thought it was an invitation to be my best goddamn mate.

“Rap.” I replied.

"Oh, yeah?” I could see his eyebrows perk in his rearview mirror. “What’s the rap about?” He was a dark-skinned guy, not too old, had a beaming smile. He was different from the Indian blokes that my Father always refused to tip. This guy was a proper Aboriginal bloke. 
“They’re talking about jail," I said, shifting my eyes to the car stalled next to us. 

“Jail?” His eyes drew closer together, “That can’t be good for a young girl to be thinking about this early in the mornin’.” 
I rolled my eyes enough for him to see. He didn’t notice. My Mum called people like him, 'Abbo'.

She told me once they all want to end up in jail. His comment didn’t really add up if that’s the case. I don’t think Dr. Dre was Aboriginal. My Gran once heard me say the word ‘Abbo' when I was little, she hit the roof ten times over. She told me never to say something so bloody stupid again or she’d send me to Ireland to live with my great aunt Mary. This was the kinda crap her and Mum would bump over, and to be completely honest, I loved it. I got a real thrill any time Gran pissed off my Mum, but it was far and few between that I’d seen it. Before some social worker in a poo-coloured blouse dropped me off two months ago, I hadn’t seen Gran in ages. I was always asking her if I could stay with her for good, even though the lady with the poo-coloured blouse said it's better for me to go back to my Mother one day.
Not the faintest on that one. I kept telling Gran I could sleep on the couch until I was too old, then I could pull a mattress out on the floor. She never properly answered. Her eyes would go all glossy if I pushed it. In fact she didn’t much bother listening to me when I tried to talk about that night, and all the other nights. Suddenly she’d want to start baking me scones or sort me a cold cup of milo.
The cab rolled up at school. I thought about the driver as I walked to class, I wondered about cultures and all that. Besides a few teachers and the odd exchange student, there aren't many other cultures besides Australians at Fort College. I walked past a couple of Year Eight students hoisting up a banner that read 'Fort Talent Quest.’ Another bunion on my bum; I was one of the first to sign up and did so without really thinking it through. I was nervous as hell because it was really bloody important for me to bring something completely unheard of to the table.
There was someone with a seat at said table who’d be watching, and that someone had me packing it. The only scholarship kid at Fort College, who was always reigning at the top of the goddamn food chain, Maya King.
Maya's another Aboriginal, and she knows nearly everything about getting noticed in life. She’s a singer, she plays guitar in the school rock band, and far out, she even draws pretty damn well too. In all honesty, she's good at just about everything and has entered the Talent Quest for the last two years running. I didn’t want to put a foot wrong in front of Maya; I couldn't handle giving her an excuse to hate me even a dollop more than she already does.
The day rolled on. It was almost lunchtime and English class was about to end. I almost shat myself with nerves. I’d booked room three, the dance studio. It would be my first time practicing this routine in front of a full-length mirror. I needed to get there ahead of the bell, before every Tom, Dick, and Leroy saw me creep in there. I sat by the door so I could escape quickly. My silver wolf necklace was in my pocket, rolling between my thumb and index finger. Maya was sitting two desks back, her voice bouncing off my right shoulder. As usual, she was sitting with Big Red Riley, an absolute bitch of a human if you don’t mind my saying. Riley was nowhere near as popular as Maya, but she thought so, alright. She strutted about finishing Maya’s sentences and mimicking the way she did her hair. I could hear the pair of them talking about which Silverchair song was their favourite from the album ‘Freak Show’. I groaned under my breath. Australian music, all guitars and reverb. No real rhythm. They must have noticed me listening. Riley made a comment about the lead singer, Daniel Johns, having hair as moppy as mine. Then she asked Maya, very loudly, if I’d ever heard of shampoo before. I gripped the wolf in my pocket tighter. When the bell buzzed, I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice they had already left for the hallway. I accidentally collided headfirst with big ol’ Riley herself, Maya trailing behind.

“Where are you off to, Moppy?” Riley giggled. I looked over at Maya, expecting her to crack a laugh too, but instead she half rolled her eyes. I pulled my Discman from my backpack and began wrapping the headphone cord around it. "It's none of your business,” I managed.
I charged forward again, my eyes focused on room three. I’d cut right in the middle of both of them to get past. Riley turned her big fat shoulder to block me. I ended up springing off of her and straight into Maya. Her school bag fell to the floor, then her tin pencil case popped open. Out of nowhere, there were these tiny, shitty beads covering the floor of the corridor.

“For fuck's sake, Cailin!” Maya snipped as she dropped to her knees.

I noticed her school skirt was way too big for her, and that she’d pinned the sides of it back to fit. Between each few beads she would look up at me with pure fury in her eyes. Red bead, yellow bead, black bead. I reckon there were a hundred of ‘em those three colours. I came down to the floor and began to grab a few to get the job done quicker. I noticed Maya’s brown hair falling over her face, she ended up tucking it behind her ear over and over. I caught the smell of her too, she smelt like a can of caramel Impulse.

“Alright, piss off, Cailin," Riley said to me.

I was happy to obey this round. I got up and began heading towards the dance studio again, hoping they wouldn’t clock where I was going. A few of Maya’s other girlfriends, and her mate Brian, huddled around her as I left.

"What happened?" Brian laughed, “And what the hell are these crap little trinkets?”.

A brief pause came from behind me. I had already drawn enough attention to myself and was losing time.
“Fucking Cailin," Maya sighed. “I wish that tomboy bitch would watch where she was going." They all laughed. I felt like a bottle of Heinz sauce, red from head to toe. I reached for my wolf necklace and gripped it again, no good. I tried to breathe, but I couldn’t find my lungs. My throat felt like cotton, and my eyes were stinging. I pulled the straps of my backpack tight and turned around. Maya was standing up, staring right at me. She looked the same way my Mum sometimes did, a face of straight-up disgust.
Something shifted. In a flash, I had Maya’s throat in my right hand, and the collar of her blouse in my left. Big Riley was pulling at me, “Get off Cailin!” She shouted. My hand wouldn’t budge. My rage wouldn’t move. Maya’s eyes looked different, they seemed lighter, wider. I got completely lost in them. I really didn’t know where I was or what I was bloody well doing. In fact, in no time at all, I was staring at bright LED ceiling lights. Maya was on top of me, hitting and slapping around my head. I’d managed to grab her by the wrists; her strength was surprising, then I had heard a man's voice bellowing above me.
“Oi!” Mr. Tavaloa jumped between us, pulling Maya off me. Everyone started shouting and telling him it was all my fault, Mr. Tavaloa demanded we go and wait in his office as he settled the squawking seagulls.

Maya and I found ourselves side by side in a long-winded silence. She kept playing with this shitty bracelet on her arm, the same red, yellow, and black beads that decorated the hallway earlier. I leaned in a little to get a better look, “You right?” Maya asked. I shrugged, "I'm surprised, I guess. Maya King, the fucking crafter.” I tried to sound cool, but it came off fairly stupid. Maya began to shuffle in her seat, “I make them for my Nan. She sells them to boutique shops. You fullas love marking up our shit.” I nodded my head, as though I got the reference. I realised for the first time ever, Maya seemed nervous. I could tell on account of the fact she answered my question like a kind of normal person. 
Mr. Tavaloa returned. Maya started ranting and raving about how I went off on her, how she didn’t do anything wrong, all that crap. Mr. Tavaloa put his hand up and gestured for her to be quiet. “Maya,” his voice was grumpy, “You mustn’t realise this, but your scholarship at this school is a very fragile thing.” I turned to Maya; her eyes looked soggy. “A school like this holds a different set of expectations for students like you.” I looked back and forth between Maya and Mr. Tavaloa. Kids on scholarships get a different deal? Well, I guess that’d be true. 

“So, can I go, sir?” I interrupted.

"No, Cailin.” He frowned, “You cannot. You’ll both be meeting with Ana after this discussion in fact.” I slumped back in my chair. Bloody school wellbeing officer. I’d spent more time in Ana’s office than in any other room at college. He turned back to Maya. "Sadly for you, I do have the very tedious job of emptying the classroom paper bins. I have found this just today in fact.” He held up a piece of paper and pointed it at her. It was folded many times over. Nothing cryptic about it, we all handed notes around. I mean, I didn’t have many people to hand a note to, but sometimes I’d send a joke across the class when bored, on occasion I’d hit the mark and solid laughter would erupt across the class. Maya lowered her head to the floor. “The content of this note Maya, is bullying. It’s not acceptable for any student at this school, and it’s certainly not prefect-worthy behaviour.” He shook his head while he spoke, “If you want to be in for a shot at school captain one day girl, this behaviour has got to stop - right now.”

I knew that the note was about me. I also couldn’t help but wonder if this whole thing was personal for Mr. Tavaloa. He sounded more worried than mad. It was the kind of telling off I’d imagine a decent Dad would give their kid.
"Here’s what’s going to happen," he patted the checkered blue tie on his shirt. "Cailin, I know you are entering the school talent quest. I believe it would be more impressive for the audience if you offered up a two-person show. Maya will be rehearsing, co-designing, and performing the routine right alongside you." He said. 
Maya and I stood up at the same time. We both hissed at him, pleaded, and stomped. Maya raved about the song she planned to perform with some of the music kids. He put his hand up, “I don’t negotiate. I dictate. You will learn to be peers. You will learn to respect each other, no matter your friendships, background, hair or skin colour." He walked around the desk and leaned against it, his face was pretty damn sour and it was getting up my goat.
"Any lack of compliance and you will both be placed on school contract for breaking our college values. Your parents, and caregiver…" he paused to look at me there, "…have been contacted. The Assistant Principal, recommends you both receive official college warnings. Are we clear on the required level of subordination from here on girls?” He replied.

Maya looked at me; I raised my eyebrows in response. We both turned back to him and gave one slight nod. Our tails were kicked like a couple of wounded wolf cubs.

Three weeks passed by, and bloody hell, did they feel like an absolute lifetime. My Gran kept hounding me about ‘visitation’ with my mother. She’d talk about the ‘social worker’ and my efforts in the process. Or lack of. She went on and on about the school talent quest and every so often, she'd shake her head, still in shock about my assault on Maya. Eventually she’d switch topics again, all stoked to watch me dance, and remind me that my parents would attend under her supervision. She banged on about this particular fact, as though I should be really chuffed or something.
The first week of rehearsals were about as awkward as a priest at playgroup. Maya had to field off questions from the popular group about why she was stuck hanging out with me every lunch and free period. She then pissed around in the corner of the room, refusing to take part in my ideas for the routine. At first I thought she hated my idea, in truth I reckon she knew I was a bloody good dancer and wasn’t quite ready to be worse at something. I mean she had some rhythm, but the hips were uptight. Maya said she didn’t like hip-hop, and wished we were listening to Foo Fighters. She asked why I liked it so much, as though it were a petty crime.
"They're real artists, poets and all that.” I replied, "They're strong and loyal, hip-hop is the alpha of all genres." She shook her head whenever I referenced wolves. In fact, she rejected almost everything that fell from my mouth. What was confusing as hell about Maya was she hated us dancing together, but she was always on time, ready at twelve o’clock sharp, and refusing to budge until the school bell rang.
Towards the end of our first week of work, we’d got into room three at about half-two in the arvo. We ended up leaving school damn near four o’clock, and Maya’s Nan had to pick her up because she missed the bus going west. Her Nan was a sweet old peach, but Christ on a cracker, the woman could talk. She seemed to take a pretty big liking to me that day in the car park, soft on me from the get-go. One of the first things she told me was that I had beautiful hair but was far too skinny: “You need to eat more, girl! We’ll go ahead and get one of my cakes in you soon enough,” she laughed.
Two more weeks rolled by and I had been to Maya’s house a total of four times. I found out her mum had died when she was really young. Her Nan helped her Dad to look after her, and her younger brother. It was a pretty weird time in their house. This little shitbrick place in Newport, the walls plastered with posters of the Aboriginal flag, and some framed photos of people I didn’t recognise. One even displayed that bloke on the fifty-dollar note, looking all grand and stuff.
Her old Nan wouldn't let up - she wanted us to take the performance very seriously. She told me she was annoyed with Maya a lot, said it right in front of her and everything. 

“That girl…” She’d say, “…she needs to get out of her own head sometimes Cailin.” 

Maya rolled her eyes and twirled her hair around her finger in response. Each time I was at their house I realised how little I understood their family. There were no marble top counters, no vanilla soy diffusers or hand soaps you weren't allowed to touch. Everything in Maya’s house had a purpose; the cushions and rugs felt worn out. It was nice.
Her family laughed a lot. One night, after we'd practiced our dance some more, Maya's dad showed me how to bake this amazing bread. It was a different kind of loaf, full of seeds and nuts and cooked in this random bit of cloth out in their fire pit in the yard. It was maybe the most delicious stuff I’d ever eaten, he'd even drizzle golden syrup over it right before I scoffed it down. Her dad worked at the fuel tank farm near Williamstown. He always reeked of coffee, cologne, and motor oil. A great kind of smell.
Maya's Nan was growing impatient by week four, she started demanding that we show off in the living room. She wanted the whole family to see our act and make sure we were not going to embarrass her. Her Nan asked me a lot about Irish dancing, and where my Gran’s ‘mob’ were from. I told her a region called Kerry. She kept asking questions about Irish history, but I didn't have any useful answers.

Even after a few dinner dates at Maya's, we still weren't super close, though I reckon her dollop of hatred had reduced. She’d still roll her eyes whenever her Dad told me a joke or her Nan gave me a hug goodbye. A part of me resented her, but a part of me really didn’t mind either. I'd often see her lending a hand to her Nan, like whenever the old girl would drop the remote or a tea towel, Maya would run over and pick it up. She'd also tell her brother to ease up on her Dad when he was being bratty. One day, through the crack in Maya’s bedroom door, I could see drawings pinned all over the wall. I poked around the frame and got stuck on these amazing images - charcoal birds, trees growing out of skyscrapers, and heaps of portraits of female figures. Her creativity was so fucking enticing, it drove me insane.
About six weeks into getting ready for the talent quest, we trashed two whole performances and finally found a dance routine we thought was pretty okay. Maya seemed to go a little easier on me after that. One time in class, big bitch Riley threw a rolled-up piece of paper at my back, and I heard Maya faintly telling her to knock it off. That same day after school, Maya caught up to me in the corridor and asked to borrow my Beastie Boys CD - beaming when I handed it over.
No matter how good our dance was, I was properly shitting myself once third term had arrived and it was time for our talent quest performance. We were hiding behind the curtain in our school's auditorium, waiting for the Principal to call us out.

Maya elbowed my arm. “You alright?” she asked. I looked at her, trying to settle the trembling hands in my hoodie pocket. “Yep,” I nodded. Her eyes squinted in frustration. “Come on, Cailin!” she barked. “We’ll be ace. Probably going to win the whole thing, most definitely.” I shook my head in response. “Nah,” I said. “It’s not that.”
She furrowed her eyebrows again. I looked away from her, staring out at the audience. I saw the faint outline of my mother’s signature top-bun, the long strand of hair that always ran down the right side of her left cheek. I could even make out the frown lines that framed her lips.
Gran was sitting next to her, looking around the room, doing her best not to acknowledge my mother’s existence. I couldn’t see my father; I hoped he wouldn’t attend. The principal headed back to the microphone, pulled out a small note from his pocket, and started, "Alright, our next act are two very creative Year Ten girls..." My gut did a flip again; I should have worn a pair of Depends.
Then I bloody well saw him. Shuffling in front of a few old ladies in the middle row, before plonking down agreeably next to my Gran. Three little dickheads all together. My grandmother was stuck in the middle of her daughter and son-in-law, looking like an aged statue.

“Prepare to be impressed!” Our principal continued, “Fusing the rhythmic steps of Irish dance with the raw energy of urban music, give it up for the extraordinary duo, The Shamrock Shuffle!” A roar of applause from the back of the room, Maya’s mates, I’m guessing.
We stood front and centre. I stared straight at my parents as Gran leaned in to get a better look at us. Maya’s Nan, sitting two rows behind her, craned her neck toward the stage as well. Her dad whipped out his Canon camera and started snapping away madly. His beaming grin cut through a herd of starch, dull adults. Brian Walker’s family sat behind the Kings, and I noticed them glaring at Maya’s family in their massive cloud of arrogance.
The beat started: one, two, three, four. "Ghetto superstar, that is what you are." As the lyrics filled the room, Pras began to take hold of my legs. I focused on the placement of my feet. Maya began to mimic me, and we managed to get the hardest bits out of the way. Once we moved through the verse, all our focus was on fluid hip-hop movement. "We can rely on each other, uh-huh," the song echoed back the chorus and we began to crip walk in sync. One, two, three... Maya’s dad stood up again, his camera flash drew my gaze. "...from one corner to another, uh-huh." As I caught one more flash of his camera, I noticed my mother. She was staring at something in her lap, her face looked stiff. What the fuck is she looking at? I thought. I swivelled around Maya without moving my gaze. My father had his right arm stretched out behind my Gran's chair. His chest puffed like an overgrown cauliflower. He’d gotten fatter in the time we’d been apart, but he wasn’t looking at me or the stage, his eyes were firmly on my mother. He was smirking at her, but she was too busy staring at her lap to even notice. When the fuck will she look up?

She pulled open her clutch and slammed her digital diary shut, tossing it inside. The bitch was canoodling with her goddamn Casio. My father’s smirk didn’t waver as he peered over my Gran’s wiry, short hair. His wife, obstructed by that head of old hair, sat with her arms crossed, her gaze piercing straight through my dancing feet.
My body became numb, and my throat felt like sand. I suddenly missed one step; that’s all it took for Maya and me to fall completely out of time. She shot me a glance and mouthed, "Yo!" pointing to my feet as if they were disobedient dogs. What kind of damn dog am I? I wondered. Not an alpha, that’s for sure—an alpha wouldn’t boil over right at the moment of truth. An alpha most definitely would not let down bloody, beautiful, fucking wonderful Maya King in our final hour. Out of nowhere, my right leg took on a life of its own—bang, bang, bang! It stomped with arrogance, and then my mouth seemed to follow along. “Fuck THIS!” I howled through the auditorium.

Suddenly I was tearing through the carpark and across the footy oval, my heart hammered as I raced towards the bike shed. I had stashed one of my old scooters there last year, my current ticket to get the fuck out of here. That day, I was decked out in a bright green hoodie with ‘EXPRESS YOURSELF’ spray-painted on the back. Maya had crafted it, designing and cutting out the stencils herself. As I glanced over my shoulder, I knew that I’d be an easy target if anyone came after me. Little green riding hood, gapping it on the wonderful Maya King. But nobody was following me. Classic, I thought. Not even Gran. She didn’t really want me; she was just a born-again peacekeeper who got stuck with a fifteen-year old problem. I’d leave Hawthorn, Melbourne, fuck it, Australia for good. I’ll go to America and I’ll become a fucking choreographer once I find this scooter.
I moved quickly past the groundsman’s house, and ducked into the shed, leaning against the wall for a moment to catch my breath. I thought of Ana. "Focus on your breath, Cailin," she’d say, "Use your breath as an anchor to ground you through this." Focus on your arse, Ana.
I began screaming, swearing, kicking over bikes and hitting the shed door. My knuckles spat blood all over the tin panels.

“Cailin…” a voice broke through my final wallop. It was Maya, leaning against the shed beside me
“Shit…” I mumbled, barely meeting her eyes. “You left?"

She perked her eyebrows, her voice holding a bit of confusion. “Well… yeah.” The emptiness in her tone pissed me off. Her voice—always so flat and…nothing. Never gave me anything to cling to.
“I wrecked everything.” I wept. 

Maya stepped back a little and shook her head. “Nah, you didn’t.” She began to play with her bracelet; her eyes became glossy. “Your folks wrecked everything,” she said softly.
My heart stopped, and suddenly I felt the sting in my knuckles. How did she know? I was mad. I really bloody loathed the pity creeping across her face in that moment.
"Jesus, Maya!” She took another step back. “What did your letter say?” I glared at her, then moved toward her. Maya’s mouth dropped open slightly. “What are you talking about?” She replied.
I went looking for my scooter at the back of the shed, I was sure I’d stashed it behind an old BMX belonging to some kid who got expelled.
“Cailin, what letter?” She asked again.

I wanted to scream.

“The fucking letter Mr. Tavaloa found in the bin,” I replied, still rummaging around for that piece-of-crap Razor.

“Cailin!” Maya was becoming fretty and whiney. “Would you bloody stop?”

I stood up straight and stared at her dead on. Glitter shone above her top lip, her hoodie was tied around her waist, and her t-shirt was covered in sweat. She took a deep breath, as though she couldn’t be arsed with me.
“It said some really mean shit, Cailin. Just awful, crappy thoughts." Her voice wasn’t reassuring; in fact, she didn’t sound sorrowful enough at all.”
“And what did you say?” I crossed my arms, trying to match her confidence and elegance, though I knew I wasn't quite selling that level of swag.
“I said,” Maya looked at her shoes for far too bloody long, “I wrote that I was fucking terrified of you.” Her chin was stuck to her chest, while her eyes looked up at me, tears streaming down like a waterfall.

My head hurt, and my eyes began to sting. Maya moved closer to me.
“You always hated me,” I muttered. “Why?” I had to look away from her. I leaned back against the wall of the shed, caught in a daze.

Within a second, Maya’s face was against mine.
Her lips pushed in firmly, and I felt her hands awkwardly grasping hold of my hips. It was soft, but it was hard too. My eyes were still wide open while Maya's were shut.
My thoughts stopped. No thinking about Gran, Mum, wolves, not even dancing. Nothing but this moment. After the longest and fastest minute of my life, Maya pulled her face away, but she held both of my hands in hers.
“I am terrified of you, Cailin, but I have never once hated you." She smiled, her eyes soft. “I lost my Mum when I was young, you know. She committed; couldn’t handle the pain. Ripped away from all her family as a little girl." Maya looked away, yet her chest was puffed out proudly as she spoke.
“It could’ve destroyed my Dad, being left alone like that. But he was a bloody fighter.” She turned to me again, looking straight into my eyes. Her hardness didn’t change, yet there was a sappy sort of softness I didn’t know could exist within Maya King.
She pulled an envelope out of her pocket. My name was sprawled across the front in big bubble writing, with detailed shading behind each letter. She placed it in my hand.

“Speaking of letters…There’s this new one I wrote for ya."

I went to open it, but she stopped me. “Not here,” she said. “But I promise you, this one’s different. I’ve been shitting myself, but I told myself you’d get it by the end of Talent Quest.” I groaned. She laughed some more.
“When can I read it then?” cheekiness mistakenly found my voice.
Maya smiled. “There’s so many good bits to you, Cailin,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard me. “You are not like anyone else at this fancy arse school. You are real, you are messy, you are fucking weird.” I didn’t know whether these were compliments or not, but I was too in awe to interrupt
“You need to find your good bits, Cailin. Find who you are, grip on and don’t let go. Don't let them dickheads get inside your head. You’ll start to think and feel like they do. Then you’ll grow up all gammin like every other wanker in this country.”
Maya unwrapped the arms of her jumper from around her waist, popped it on, and pulled the hood over her head. “I’ve got to go. My Dad wants to take us all to tea. He'll be wanting to know you're okay too.” She paused for a moment then, as if waiting for me. She shrugged and kissed me, this time on my cheek. The air hung between us, so warm and real. I couldn't move. I didn't want to move. Her nose twitched a little before she kissed my hand one last time.
She began to walk beyond the bike shed, towards the oval. I felt a pang watching her; I missed her, even though she was right in front of me. She turned back to look at me.

"Oi, Cailin!”

I stepped out of the bike shed and shielded my eyes from the Melbourne sun. “Yeah?” I replied.

“Remember to find your good bits. I would beg you to come to dinner and all that, but I ain't here to save you, girl." She beamed a big cheeky grin at me, the tears on her cheeks sparkling a little under the sun. She turned away again and made her way toward the college.
I couldn’t hold my horses. I tore open the envelope right through the bubble font. Sweat droplets fell onto the page as I pulled it out and quickly unfolded it. The paper was mostly blank, except for smack bang in the centre. A small fine, charcoal drawing. Two wolves, cross-hatched and shaded, their necks wrapped around each other in a loving nuzzle. The smaller wolf, rocked a tiny baseball hat on its head. The larger one wore a collar with red, yellow, and black stripes.

Above both animals, a relaxed tag read:

“I see you. 

One day -

I hope you will see too.”